


so they watch over us like gods of old; our patron sinners

by debeauharnais



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Relationship, Slurs, in which charlie and meyer are idiots and benny sighs in the background, regarding masseria, stupid gangster cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 07:59:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4869245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/debeauharnais/pseuds/debeauharnais
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Then it’s quiet. New York is far away; there’s only breathing that’s slowly growing deeper; only a scratchy red blanket and forgotten cigarettes and three outcasts too young to have that much blood on their hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so they watch over us like gods of old; our patron sinners

**Author's Note:**

> why can i only use present tense when im writing about these dumbs?? we'll never know. 
> 
> this is terrible but enjoy!! love ya 
> 
> xxx

It’s gotten worse – the pining _(fucking pathetic)_ , the leaden ache that he chokes down and muzzles and tells to pipe the fuck down. Because it can’t exist – it _doesn’t_ – and Meyer’s just a fucking kid (‘ _nineteen’s not that young’_ a little niggling voice in his head will titter; and he drowns that too, bottles it up like pisswater and labels it _toxic_ and buries it deep, deep under his skin until his fingers are raw and his knuckles are bloody); (too many men – older, bigger, more powerful (he couldn’t say no to them) – have called his hands _pretty_ ). Meyer’s a child. And Charlie has long since resigned himself to the idea of being one of _those_ men (not accepted, never a _ccepted_ ) – a poof, a “ _pederast”_  if you want to get real fancy; but it isn’t fancy. It isn’t _nice_ like it is when Charlie takes a woman to bed just to prove he can. No. It’s his knees blistering against cold concrete; it’s blunt nails at his scalp and Italian cologne that takes weeks to scrub off his flesh (and the soap always gives him a rash when he abrades too much, too fast – maybe that’s because he flays himself alive to get the feel of those fingers off his skin; strips away at himself to get the taste off his tongue). It’s humiliation burning like hot oil in his lungs even as he tells himself _I don’t care; what’s it matter? Just a bit extra for the bosses now to help me out in the future._

He doesn’t want that for Meyer. He wants Meyer to settle down with a pretty broad – maybe a Jewish girl with sweet-lookin’ ringlets and freckles and a rose on each cheek, the works – and have two kids, or four, or ten. Because he can have that. He isn’t _like_ Charlie. Meyer’s going to rule the world someday and, fuck, it’s fine and dandy to think he might be right there next to him at their coronation but what if he _isn’t?_ Because he sometimes listens to the way Meyer speaks – so full of life, all aflame and certain and _beautiful_ – and feels like he’s lost faith in his own future, in his yet-to-be. He can’t see it. Sure, he smiles and nods along and toasts to their kingdom when Meyer tells him they’ll be kings (hadn’t that once been his job?) but he feels _bogged down._ Like he’s trying to move, to walk, and there’s mud around his feet, his legs, his throat and he can’t _breathe_ and he can’t get out of it and in a couple years’ time, when Meyer’s zenith of his own fucking dynasty, he’ll think back to that little city called New York and wonder what ever happened to that low-life thug called Luciano. Meyer can have that. And he _wants_ Meyer to have that.

But, oh, he wants Meyer more. And his skin crawls at the thought – his stomach twists, warps, and every time he looks at the kid ( _Meyer_ , who he’s known since they were both just two almost-urchins screaming at a world too big and too merciless to ever listen) and feels that little thread of desire knotting under his ribs, he wants to claw the marrow from his charred bones; and every time he brings himself off and pretends it’s Meyer’s hands instead of his own, there’s bile at the back of his throat like poison, like venom, hissing and taunting and _reminding_ him that he’ll never be a real man because _real_ men don’t fuck themselves to the thought of a pretty boy. But he burns for him. Universes collide and stars burn out and entire civilisations collapse into dust and he _wants_ him. _You’re sick_ , he tells himself whenever he looks across the room and imagines how Meyer would feel against his palms, his lips; whenever his eyes fall to Meyer’s mouth and he wonders what it must taste like; whenever he excuses himself from the room because he’d been thinking _how many ways could I make quiet little Meyer scream?_

He’s always been greedy.

“Charlie.” His head snaps up from where he’s been half-perched against the arm of his couch (it needs a clean), cradling a dying cigarette between two fingers. Meyer’s eyeing him from his place at the small table, amidst an ocean of paper and scribblings; his face is drawn, eyes a little manic as they so often become when he’s on the precipice of over-exhaustion (and there’s ink under his fingernails, in his veins). Pale, spidery dawn light has begun to filter in through the windows, washing over the city like so much powdered milk. Benny snores quietly behind him, limbs strewn out over the sofa and head very nearly lolling over the edge – he’s hardly moved since he’d collapsed atop the cushions hours earlier. “You were off somewhere else again.”

Charlie’s forehead aches from frowning and he draws up a hand to rub at his eyes. There’s questions in Meyer’s words, in the way he’s looking at him – _are you alright? (You’re a liability)._ “It’s a fuckin’ crime to think now?” Sniffing self-consciously, he throws the cast-aside blanket he keeps nearby for just such occasions (it’s old and worn and they’d found it in a tattered little flea market near Meseritz Synagogue three years ago – and Meyer keeps saying they ought’a get rid of it and Charlie’s not _sentimental_ but…) over Benny (the fucking kid still somehow manages to be obnoxious unconscious) and makes his way over to the sparse kitchen on heavy legs – trying _(failing)_ not to let his mind dwell on the drowsiness in Meyer’s voice, on the languid ease of his oft-tense muscles or the somnolence that hangs in the air like fine dust and catches the light. He swallows thickly at the thought of how warm – how _soft_ – Meyer must be in his torpid state, when the gears in his head are steadily slowing and groaning under the weight of forced mental labour in such early hours. _Meyer’d melt against him and they’d just lie together as the day passed them by – fuck New York, fuck AR…_ It’d just be them. And the shit of a kid snoring up a storm on the couch.

“ _Mens rea,_ ” Meyer calls from the other room, the hint of a yawn catching on his tongue. There’s the faint shuffling of papers and it sounds like waves in a black sea.

Charlie wrinkles his nose, turning on the tap and rinsing out two cups; the steam from the hot water billows up to brush over his face and fill his vision with muted morning clouds. “Huh?”

“The guilty mind.”

“Yeah? What about it?”

There might have been a little chuckle. “In order to convict an accused person of a serious crime, Charlie, the court first has to prove the presence of criminal intent. The guilty act is only one side of the coin.”

 _Fuckin’ know-it-all._ Charlie grins to himself for a moment; then the unremitting half-panic is in his chest again, eating him alive and gnawing at the blood vessels under his skin (and sometimes it feels so thin he’s surprised Meyer can’t see right through him), and he remembers. Remembers they aren’t _friends_ anymore – because he shouldn’t want to fuck his friend into next week; because he dreams of committing the guilty act; because he’s turned Meyer into _prey_ and it’s so… _wrong._ Clenching his jaw, he frowns and clears his throat. Suppress. Bury. Burn alive. “Fascinatin’. You want tea?” It’s already brewing.

“Please.” 

With a cup in each hand, scolding his knuckles through the ceramic, he steadies himself and re-joins Meyer in the living room (and it’s like coming home). Meyer glances up at the tea as Charlie sets it down on a clear patch of table before him. “Sugar?”

“Whaddaya think I am, a fuckin’ barbarian?” The look Charlie offers is more light-hearted sneer than smile. He claims the chair opposite Meyer, not trusting himself beside him and the spot fires in his eyes. “Four,” he added, settling a cigarette between his lips. “Figure you’ll need it.”

Meyer doesn’t respond, pen already scratching away again, biting out its disjointed rhythm. Charlie leans back and watches him – his fingers, a little calloused; his eyes, beginning to droop; the tendons in his neck that trail down to the milky skin exposed by the loss of the tie and jacket, both long since abandoned and draped over the back of the chair. Frowning to himself, Charlie ducks his head and sips at the too-hot coffee that’s ice water next to the fire under his skin; tendrils of lazy smoke curl about his ears, exhaled from the lungs of the cigarette clasped listlessly between his fingers. The clock on the dresser ticks their lives away and Meyer’s tea cools and then grows cold, untouched and forgotten, to the absent-minded drumming of Charlie’s fingertips against the tabletop. The delicate dawn light gives way to day but Charlie won’t surrender to the weariness that makes his bones twinge and his hands tremble – can’t, not with Meyer there, so _close_ , so prone to slinking away as soon as Charlie closes his eyes. And he’s ravenous with a hunger that skulks in his flesh, in his arteries – he can _feel_ Meyer in his blood (like an ache begging to be fed with human heat; like a famine when Meyer is wine and holy water) and he can’t sleep, not when he could reach out and _touch…_ His fingers (and he can feel every bone, every nerve ending, every splinter in the wood) continue to drum, drum— 

“Charlie—“ He glances up over the ash of his sixth cigarette, startled by the slurred frustration in Meyer’s voice; by the glaze of wandering mist that has settled over his eyes like a fatigued film - he’ll work himself into an early grave. Meyer’s gaze drops to Charlie’s fingers. “Please.”

Charlie stills, shifting and leaning forward – a little guilty, a little defensive. He frowns, jabbing the remnant of the cigarette towards Meyer, accusing. “Kid your age should’a been asleep hours ago, Meyer – now you’re tellin’ me to knock it off?”

“Are you offering to finish these up? Because AR won’t be happy if these aren’t done by tomorrow.”

“It _is_ fuckin’ tomorrow, smartass.”

Meyer’s brow furrows as he turns to the window; Charlie’s close enough to see his pupils dilate. In the sudden silence, Charlie becomes aware of the city that had simmered into being when their eyes and ears were closed, car horns blaring along to the fragmented, jerking tune of shouting and laughing and _life –_ far, far below. A pigeon coos outside the window. For a moment, the room (coffee brown and golden in the autumn light, all warm shadows like darkness under smudged, tired eyes) is still. And the air is old and stale. Hazy. Then Meyer sighs and bows his head, massaging his eyes with stiff fingers. Charlie watches, transfixed. “When did that happen?” And he is so quiet, so small.

“’Bout five hours ago.”

“AR’ll be expecting us.” He looks ready to stand; Charlie gestures vaguely with the cigarette stub, trailing the last puffs of smoke through the air.

“You gotta sleep, Meyer.” He leans forward, offering a grin and a dismissive wave of his hand. “A pissy toddler ain’t no use to anyone when he don’t get his mid-mornin’ nap.”

Charlie expects Meyer to fix him with a subduing look, or to scoff or snap or insist that _he’s fine_ because he’s always fine, isn’t he? Charlie goes off the rails, he gets real nasty and punches holes in walls – but Meyer’s always _fine._ He’s cold and collected and there are times Charlie thought only he could sense _(feel)_ the electricity hissing in Meyer’s veins.

But Meyer just breathes, slow and even and pained, knuckles pressed to his temples. He stares down at the papers covered in the whisperings of disconnected thoughts not quite recorded. Charlie can almost hear him thinking. Then, finally, he nods once and rises; Charlie’s with him, flits ahead to haul Benny aside – “move over, asshole.”

“Fuck you, you fuckin’ cockhead dago fuck,” Benny snarls without opening his eyes, flailing for a moment in an effort to hit Charlie with at least one of his limbs (he doesn’t). He buries his face in the couch cushion, mumbling, “I’m fuckin’ sleeping.”

“ _Cazzo fastidioso._ ” He shoves at Benny’s legs again; the kid only stretches out further.

“Kiss my ass.”

Charlie cuffs Benny over the back of the head, earning another string of invectives. “Meyer’s asleep on his fuckin’ feet.”

“Then why don’t he and you go cuddle up in bed together, huh? Wake up with a bit’a—“ He breaks off to gasp out a series of moans, cries and pants, voice still muffled by the cushions.

“ _Benny._ ” He falls silent the moment Meyer opens his mouth. Charlie raises his eyes to Meyer, standing at the arm of the sofa, looking so _tired._ “Enough.”

Benny grunts, kicking out at Charlie once more before reluctantly drawing his knees closer to his chest and hoisting himself up to press his cheek to the back of the sofa. “ _Vekn mir aroyf far dem drek._ ”

“Kids ain’t meant to be this disrespectful to their elders,” Charlie quips dumbly, skin prickling with unease at Benny’s nonsense – at the thought of the side-long glances he’s thrown by men who seem to smell his guilt, who seem to known that _he isn’t like them_. He swallows down the bile that threatens to choke him. With a weak frown, he settles down onto the couch (leather, for no reason other than the fact he could _afford_ it and it felt good to be able to tell the shopkeeper – with the proud eyes and the manicured nails – that he’d be taking it) and spread his arms over the back, tilting his head up to study Meyer idly. And it’s easy – so _easy_ – to imagine that he’s looking back at him with the same ideas rushing about his head _(how Charlie’d draw Meyer down to him; how his lethargic kisses would taste like fire and smoke and bad dreams; how they’d gulp them down, choke on broken oaths and curses; how Charlie’d touch every burning inch of him, leave little bites and burst blood vessels to tell the world Meyer’s his; how he’d fuck him like he was worshipping a god)._ But he isn’t. Charlie drops his gaze, shifting restlessly.

Jaw working despite his silence, Meyer drops carefully down onto the couch. He feels tense beside Charlie, every muscle drawn and frozen as though he’ll balk at the slightest touch; he scarcely seems to breathe. And this is _Meyer_ \- Meyer, who could make himself at home in the devil’s own court; Meyer, who he’d known from other lifetimes the moment he’d first met him, in that alley smelling of piss and misery (and he’d been all bared teeth and _rage_ ) – Charlie’d recognised his soul and said to himself, _there you are._ He doesn’t know where that soul’s gone, now; it’s locked inside Meyer – has been for a while now – and he doesn’t know _why_. They sit there for a long moment, lungs taut and throats filled with gravel, as Benny lapses back into snoring – Charlie, startled into rigidity by the discomfort radiating from Meyer (because where Meyer leads, Charlie inevitably follows).

Finally, Meyer draws in a shallow breath and glances to Charlie with eyes almost too innocent. “Half an hour, Charlie.” He makes a little gesture with his hand, a slice through the air. “Then we’re gone, yes?”

Charlie dips his head obligingly, grinning. “Sure, Mey. Whatever you say.”

There’s another moment’s hesitation before Meyer nods to himself and curls up, ear pressed heavily against the armrest – making a noble effort not to touch the man beside him; Charlie catches the flutter of his eyelashes, knows he’s staring across the room. And his teeth ache from where he’s clenching them because why the fuck is it _like this?_ They aren’t _meant to be like this._ They’re supposed to be one mind, one heart, one fucking lung because one is _enough,_ one is plenty when they’re breathing for each other because e _ach other_ is all there fucking is. But not anymore. Now it’s tense and nervous with eyes that never quite meet. Because Meyer’s clever and he knows and, fuck, Charlie’s so _angry_ that it’s come to this _._

Choking it down, he tugs at a corner of the blanket Benny’s been hogging (the kid can fall asleep in a heartbeat) and spreads it over his lap, over Meyer’s curled up little form that draws in tighter at the touch. “Relax, Meyer,” he murmurs, the rage catching in his throat like hot cinders. And he’s about to stand and storm away when Benny lets out a grumble and kicks out, draping his legs across Charlie’s lap and digging his heels into Meyer’s shoulder blades; and he’s about to snap at Benny when Meyer _laughs_ with a shudder and a sound like a pintsized hiccup. Charlie eyes him cautiously but all the kid says is, _“half an hour, Charlie”_ in a drifting voice – and Charlie almost thinks he’s smiling.

Then it’s quiet. New York is far away; there’s only breathing that’s slowly growing deeper; only a scratchy red blanket and forgotten cigarettes and three outcasts too young to have that much blood on their hands. And the day wastes away and gives way to night and at 6 o’clock Benny stirs and yawns and mutters _“fuckin’ asshole”_ and steals back the blanket from the Sicilian who’s now snoring against Meyer’s shoulder.

“Don’t wake him up, Benny,” Meyer breathes into the warm gloom.

“Thought it was you needed to crash so bad, not this fuckin’ spaghetti-slurpin’ schmuck.” But he lowers his voice.

Meyer smiles thinly. “Go back to sleep. Call it our day off.”

**Author's Note:**

> cazzo fastidioso: fucking annoying 
> 
> vekn mir aroyf far dem drek: wakes me up for this shit
> 
> xxx


End file.
